


lost in the cosmos lonely

by shella688



Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: (sorry but philosphers don't get rights), (they're stories brian tells to entertain himself), Alternate Universe - The Mechs Don't Actually Exist, Character Study, Gen, We Are Small And The Universe Is Big
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shella688/pseuds/shella688
Summary: There is a man, a good one too, all adrift in the cosmos. He isn't lost,  merely seeing where chance will carry him.Listen close - he has tales to tell.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56
Collections: Stowaways' Shenanigans





	lost in the cosmos lonely

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this](https://wickedace.tumblr.com/image/65556254569) incredible artwork.
> 
> The idea is that the Mechs are finger puppets Brian made to entertain himself as he drifted through space.

Out in the inky depths of space, there is a man. He hangs suspended in the void, letting fate take him where it will. He was a storyteller once, still is, if a storyteller can exist with no audience. 

It can, of course. Some philosophers may disagree, but the man always did think philosophers were twats who spent too long thinking about what could be instead of looking at what actually _is._

Three points, he says. Three things he wants to share before he drifts on once more. Then, in a voice hoarse from disuse, he begins.

  
  


First: space isn't really black. A small quibble yes, but the man is nothing if not meticulous and if the first story he told in millennia spread misinformation well-

No, it doesn't bear thinking about.

For something so _other_ \- for something that countless sentients have looked up into and tried, and failed, to understand - space is oddly beige. A great cosmic latte through which the man floats like a marshmallow.

That simile was rusty, admits the man, but then so is he.

  
  
  


It's not lonely either. This wasn't one of the three points, but it's been so long since he's had an audience. Forgive him this brief tangent.

There's no life to speak of out here, of course. But he's seen stars being born in the hearts of nebula and planets being ripped apart by black holes and-

Space is just so _full_ , when you know what to look for.

  
  
  


The man grins almost sheepishly now. A good story has the past, present and future and here he is skipping the past to focus on the present. Best to return to the past before it passes beyond grasp. He flexes one hand slowly. It's metal.

Once, he was a medical man. As age and toil took its toll on his body, he replaced it part by part with metal and machinery - all the better to continue helping others with, my dear. All that remains now is his heart, beating out a steady one-two in its brass casing.

His people threw him into the sky for that, calling it unnatural. But, the man reasons, him changing was inevitable regardless. A change on his own terms, by his own hands, is just the same as any other really.

Don't bring up the ship of Theseus. The man has made quite clear his opinions on philosophers already. 

  
  
  


And the future? The man inclines his head, pulling something small out of a pocket. Multiple small somethings, as it were.

These, he explains, are his creations, his hobby. Fingerpuppets, seven of them. The detail is incredible - one has tiny delicate wings and the paintwork around another's eyes is intricate despite the small size. He has backstories for all of them, a sprawling mythos made from nothing but his own imagination. Decades upon decades of lore that he weaves together into stories of revolution, mystery and love; each story tragic yet each achingly beautiful.

Some day he wants to tell their stories to an audience, not just his own thoughts.

One begins to float away, but the man reaches out easily to catch it. He's lost two, he says sadly. Let them go by accident and off they went, out into space too big to easily comprehend. He hopes he'll come across them again one day, improbable though it is. Although perhaps it was time for them to leave. Nothing can remain the same forever after all.

  
  
  


We're running out of time, the man says, despite time having no meaning out here. He wonders if you have any final questions before he drifts away once more.

Where to next? Where to next indeed, he muses. Space is big, that's true, bitter, dark and cold. But there's beauty there too, the colours of a nebula, the song of a probe sent by a people whose only wish was _is there anybody else there?_

It's full of stories, if you know where to look.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr over at [regicidal-defenestration](https://regicidal-defenestration.tumblr.com/) so come say hi


End file.
